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More. Eat. Hot.

George had his surgery on Monday. Any friends of mine who have NEVER EVER handed their two year olds fries while driving in the car can skip right on down to the last paragraph to read about George being fine now, although they didn’t do all the surgery they had planned.

The rest of the moms can keep reading. But I’m sure I don’t have any friends who have EVER done this: Drive through a fast food place, get the bags through the window, and before pulling out of the parking lot, reach back to the inhabitant of the car seat right behind you and pass him a handful of fries. HOT fries. Hot fries which hurt little hands and make him cry.

Since I have actually done this to my child, he now refers to fries with the ASL sign for hot. And yes, every time he says it, I remember and feel guilty. But anyway, back to the surgery.

George just didn’t understand why he couldn’t have breakfast Monday morning. He was hungry and thirsty and wanted to eat. Then, when we got to the hospital, there was a family in the waiting room with McDonalds bags. He KNOWS what’s in there. HOT is in there. And he wanted some. More. Eat. Hot.

Finally we got called back to the preop area. We went over forms, got weighed, checked vital signs, and at least 8 different people asked me what his birth date was. Then we waited. We waited in a chair in our little curtained cubicle. We read all of our books again, and waited some more. We sang songs and did finger plays that did not involve any words like More, Eat, or Hot. Then we waited some more. It is very hard for a two year old to sit on mama’s lap for so long, especially when mama has a hard time holding a two year old for so long… so I finally let him climb off my lap.

I thought it was a great idea. The older lady just on the other side of the curtain was very nervous about her cataract surgery. Having George pop his head under the curtain and say “Hi!” and smile at her must have helped distract her. The eight year old around the corner awaiting his tonsillectomy thought it was really funny that George kept escaping and crawling FAST right for the bathroom.

The nurses were NOT amused. One nurse even told me that the floors were so dirty that George was going to get a surgical wound infection. Hmmm… I wonder what she thinks about children who are allowed to crawl around outside? Then another nurse though she’d be helpful and gave me a blanket. If I was going to let him be on the floor, I needed to have him sit on the blanket. George LOVED the blanket, but he sure wasn’t going to sit still on it.

I was very relieved when the anesthesiologist came to get him for his operation. Actually, George was, too. He was so bored by then that he went right with the guy… no fussing at all. I guess he thought that going anywhere with anybody was more interesting than sitting in that chair. And maybe that doctor was going to give him More. Eat. Hot.

So I went back to the waiting room, and the doctors worked on George. It took three sticks to get his IV, which is better than average. They got his right ear fixed up, decided to tune up his left ear while they were at it, and then started on his upper airway. After a bit, the surgeon had me called on the phone in the waiting room from a speaker phone in the OR to tell me that he wasn’t going to take George’s adenoids out, he just didn’t want to stir up any more inflammation because even a little bit of swelling can make a small airway even harder to breathe through. I was OK with that.

So we met back up in the recovery room, and even though I couldn’t help him with More. Eat. Hot., I had a nice bottle of milk for him, which he thoroughly enjoyed. They watched him for quite a while, to make sure he didn’t have any more swelling and therefore breathing obstruction, but eventually we got to go home.

He’s doing pretty well today (48 hours later) although he has some bruises from the IV and he also has a black eye. You can just see it starting to get a little red in the photo above … I’m not sure if it’s from the edge of the mask that they use for anesthesia until they get the IV started, or if it’s from working through his nose… but it doesn’t seem to bother him. As long as we keep up with his tylenol he’s fine. Until it’s time to do his ear drops. Then we get real tears… I think they must burn terribly, because he’s usually a good sport about things like that.

And now it’s time for both of us to take a nap. It’s definitely going to take me longer to recover from George’s surgery than it is for him. Next time I’m going to bring several big kids to play pass the baby… we can just all line up those chairs in a row and pretend it’s a pew in church. They don’t let you More Eat Hot there, either 🙂 .

Thanks for the lovely update, Elizabeth. What a picture you paint. I felt like I was there. So glad that sweet George is doing well. I’m always amazed at how well you manage that busy household of yours even with your limited energy. Wishing you strength and God’s blessing on all of you.

I’m vastly relieved to know that you do things like that too!!! You had me snorting in an undignified fashion over your and George’s doings. Hey, you might as well laugh right? Glad he’s doing OK and you clearly have your sense of humor firing on all cylinders. Keep on trucking.
Hugs.

I’ve burnt my kids with French Fries too 🙂 Glad to read he’s doing good. I was surprised that they let him have milk; so many kids have tonsil/adnoid problems that get better by going casein free (although I know his troubles are deeper than that).
Rest up!

Precious wonderful Elizabeth, You made me remember a long-suppressed memory. (OK, only 15 years of long. We’re not talking PTSD or anything.)

When my oldest was little, HOT was one of her first words, too. She signed it, too. Plus, she’d say it (more or less). Her vocalization of the word was a tiny little nearly-h sound, followed by a very breathy O, and a little tiny stop of a t… all in a whisper instead of a voice. Wish I could send you the sound of it; it was quite precious.

Her word for the beverage that her parents seemed to drink ceaselessly (coffee) was “HOT”… as in “Don’t spill that stuff on me again, please.”

One day we three (we were only three back then) were riding in the car. The oldest started saying “HOT”. As dutiful parents we tried to develop a conversation based upon this one word. “Yes, dear, mama’s drinking coffee. It’s HOT. Coffee is HOT. Be careful about coffee. It’s HOT and hurts if it spills. Good girl.” Baby said “HOT” again. More inane banter from me. Baby repeated “HOT”, a little more emphatically. Mama tried to think of something new and clever to say. Baby kept insisting on HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT, clearly become exasperated with her parents’ genuine stupidity.

FINALLY one of her parents came to sensibility and realized that the heater was blowing full blast into poor Baby’s face. No wonder she was desperately telling us “HOT” — she was being COOKED!

Once the temperature was adjusted, she didn’t bother us with repeated announcements of “HOT” any more.